One Hot Summer

by Melissa Cutler

  Since when had telling a person to “relax” ever been effective? And yet every single man on this planet seems to be born with that phrase preloaded into his DNA, ready to be released onto womankind at every opportunity. Breathe, Remedy. And “take two” on that smile in three … two … one.… “For your information, I’m not afraid of anything, least of all thirty feathered rats being set loose for no good reason. My only concern is for those poor, defenseless butterflies.”

  “The dove handler isn’t worried about his birds eating the butterflies. He said he’ll make sure to feed them first and he’ll take care of releasing them, then corralling them back into their cages once the guests are tucked away in the reception tent. You won’t even have to go near them. You can station yourself safe and sound under the tent eaves during their release and then beat it inside before they’ve cleared the chapel. Easy as pie.”

  Easy as pie. Right. Then again, Alex had obviously never had to contend with twenty attack doves that decided that instead of flying off into the sunset it’d be more fun to dive-bomb the poor first-time wedding planner before descending into the reception room to roost on the wedding cake.

  Litzy, Remedy’s assistant, popped her head around the tent’s corner, her black hair shimmering in the sunlight in a bob cut with severe bangs that gave the illusion she was even younger than her twenty-four years. “The fire marshal’s here for his inspection.”

  Alex clapped his hands. “Hallelujah. The day has finally arrived when handling the fire marshal is your job, Remedy. Good luck with that.”

  In a flash, he was fast-walking back toward the resort, probably to get out of sight before the fire marshal saw him.

  Remedy had a gee, thanks on the tip of her tongue when a surge of panic nearly shot her out of her shoes as she realized what Litzy’s presence meant. “Litzy, what are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be tending to the bridal party in the prep suite. You’re supposed to stick to the bride like glue.”

  “The bride’s fine. She’s happily sipping champagne and getting her hair done.”

  Wrong answer. A niggle of panic tickled Remedy’s throat at the idea of having another assistant she couldn’t trust. After the Zannity scandal, enough was enough. She draped her arm across the jacket of Litzy’s fresh-from-the rack gray pantsuit and walked her away from Alex. “Litzy, we’ve talked about this. You need to get back to the prep suite immediately. I don’t want to see you again until the ceremony. Got it?”

  “But Alex always—”

  Litzy’s laid-back approach might have flown with the equally laid-back Alex, but if the day had truly arrived in which Remedy was in charge then her directive to “stick to the bride like glue” left no room for interpretation.

  “Alex hired me to be the resort’s wedding planner, so we’re doing things my way now,” Remedy said. “Is that going to be a problem?” Yes, she hated to be that kind of boss, but she wasn’t about to let another assistant sabotage her career.

  “No. It won’t happen again.”

  “Excellent. Thank you.”

  They’d cleared the reception pavilion when a metal cage holding a mess of white feathers was thrust into her face. “You the boss around here?”

  Suddenly she wanted to give that title back to Alex. “Yes. Remedy Lane. And you must be the dove man?”

  “Skeeter Cowles, at your service.” Skeeter was a slight man, with arm and legs that looked as limber as Gumby’s and wearing overalls that were at least two sizes too big and a cream-colored cowboy hat that was even more ill fitting. He leaned in, as though confessing a secret. “Actually, they’re not doves. They’re pigeons. But that’s just between you and me.”

  Remedy nearly choked on her spit. “The groom’s family ordered doves.”

  “Doves can’t be trained. My homing pigeons can, though. They look like doves and they sound like doves, but they’re superior in every way. When I release them, they’ll fly around a little bit for show so the wedding guests can ooh and ahh, and then they meet me at my truck when I blow my special whistle.”

  “They’re whistle trained?” Litzy asked.

  “That’s the beauty of pigeons. You can’t reason with a dove, but these babies are as trained as dogs. I just set their cages open in the back of my truck, blow my whistle, and they come on home to Daddy.”

  The birds’ bodies were plump, their feathers a pretty cream color. Not at all mangy or pigeon-like.

  Skeeter knocked on the top of the cage, much to the obvious displeasure of its occupants, who set feathers flying with the flapping of their wings. “Say, I have an idea. How ’bout I give y’all a live demo right now?”

  “Oh, Skeeter. That’s … wow … But I’d rather save the doves—”

  His expression turned sympathetic. “Ma’am, these here are pigeons,” he said gently, as though she were daft.

  “Right, but we’re calling them doves today, aren’t we? Let’s save them for the wedding ceremony. We don’t want to tire them out.”

  “Hogwash. We’ve got plenty of time for me to show you ’bout their whistle training.” And before she could protest further, he flipped the doors of all four cages open.

  “Duck!” Remedy called to Litzy as she dropped to the ground, her arms shielding her head.

  “No, ma’am, they ain’t ducks neither!” Skeeter called over the din of thirty birds taking flight. “They’re homing pigeons, see? You sure have a lot to learn.”

  Remedy couldn’t think of a darn thing to say in reply. She didn’t hear any wings flapping and so chanced a look past her arm. The pigeons were on the lawn about twenty feet away, pecking the grass.

  Clearing her throat, Remedy stood and smoothed out her skirt in a valiant attempt to regain her air of authority. Between Gwyneth and Skeeter’s pigeons, Remedy was starting to feel more like a zoologist than an event planner. Sounds like it was time to talk to Alex about adopting a “no live animal” policy.

  “The pigeons don’t seem very interested in flying,” she said.

  Skeeter bumped his cowboy hat up so he could scratch his head. “Hmph. Not sure what happened. But I’ll get ’em to fly.”

  The last thing Remedy needed was an overalls-clad man chasing pigeons on the wedding lawn, but her protests went unheeded. Shouting and flapping his arms, Skeeter chased them down. Looking as bored as lazy cats, the pigeons hopped and flapped their way on top of the reception tent.

  “Skeeter, please. I think it’s time to show us that whistle trick.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He shoved a grimy metal whistle between his lips and blew, producing a shrill note that made both Remedy and Litzy wince.

  The pigeons turned their heads in unison toward the sound. Cooing, they took to the air, flying high over Skeeter, Remedy, and Litzy like a flapping, feather-shedding, cream-colored cloud. Remedy covered her hair with her arms and closed her eyes in a prayer that they didn’t bomb her as they passed. When she opened her eyes again, it was to see the birds flying over the wide expanse of lawn and up the hill to the chapel—right over a young woman clad in a flowing white wedding gown.

  “Oh my God, is that the bride?” Remedy said on a gasp. She grabbed Litzy’s arm. “What is she doing here? I thought you said she was getting her hair done.”

  Litzy wrung her hands. “She is. I mean, she was. I don’t know what she’s doing out here. Oh my God. Why couldn’t she just stay put?”

  “Those doves had better not bomb her!”

  Skeeter pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe a splotch of bird poop off his cheek. “Bless your heart, ma’am, but them there are pigeons, not doves. Guess that’s a tricky fact to keep in your head.”

  Remedy didn’t have time for this. Not Skeeter’s lectures on bird species or a wandering bride.

  She had to clench her teeth to keep her voice modulated and quiet. “Skeeter, it’s time for you to get those birds under control. Now.”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll get ’em where they belong before the guests arr
ive. You have my word.”

  Remedy wasn’t sure how foolproof Skeeter’s word was, but she didn’t have much choice. When she turned back toward the tent, Litzy was still standing there. “What’s the deal, Litzy? Why are you here?” Her voice was shrill, but she couldn’t help it. Not a single damn thing was going her way.

  “I was watching the pigeons, ma’am.”

  Oh boy. “Get that bride back in her prep suite before she sees the trouble with the tent or the pigeons or any of this craziness. We’re trying to put on a wedding, not a circus, damn it. And a wedding is no place for a bride!”

  “I’m hoping that just came out wrong,” said a drawling male voice behind her.

  Remedy closed her eyes. The last hour had been pure insanity, but she’d done a pretty good job keeping her cool right up until she’d seen Litzy gawking at the birds instead of doing her job. Deep breath, Rem.

  She pasted a serene smile on her face, transforming herself into a picture of cool calmness, then turned to face whichever vendor or resort employee had witnessed her mini-meltdown.

  She wasn’t prepared for the sight of the Alpha Bubba himself. Her serene façade vanished in an explosion of shock. “Garrity.”

  “Ms. Lane.” Amusement danced in his eyes as the tip of his tongue appeared, pressing against that ever-present toothpick at the corner of his mouth. Was he fighting a smile? Was this all some kind of joke to him? And, furthermore, what was he doing in the middle of her job site cracking wise about the way she conducted herself and smirking down at her like he owned the world and she was but a plaything?

  Too late to wish she’d worn platform heels so she could meet him eye-to-eye. She snapped her spine straight, all bravado and contained panic. “What are you doing here?”

  He nodded toward the tent, which was now—thankfully—perfectly erect. “I’m here to inspect your setup. I told that poor assistant of yours that you just reamed out to let you know I’d arrived.”

  “Inspecting the event setup is the fire marshal’s job.”

  He shifted his weight to his heels and hooked his thumbs on his belt, a clipboard tucked under his arm. “Which is why I’m here.”

  “But you’re the fire chief.”

  He rocked on his boot heels. “I’m sure in California, what with all your sophistication and rivers of money, even the smallest community can afford to spread the public servant jobs around to a lot of men—”

  “Or women.”

  “I was gettin’ to that, but thanks all the same for making me sound like a sexist asshole.”

  God, she wanted to rip that toothpick out from between those smirking lips and snap it in two. “I’m sure you didn’t need my help to achieve that.”

  As if hearing her thoughts, he produced a second toothpick from his pocket and held it out to her. “Toothpick?”

  It was her turn to sneer. “Disgusting.”

  The triumph in his eyes made her wish she’d taken the damned toothpick. It would’ve given her something to grit her teeth around.

  “As I was saying, as opposed to California, out here in the sticks the fire budget isn’t large enough to support a separate chief and marshal. The good folks of Ravel County voted to combine the jobs years ago. So as long as you’re working at this resort, you’re going to have to deal with me. Every week, every event. You think you can handle that?”

  No. “Of course I can. You’re not my first fire marshal.”

  “Let’s not start comparing the notches on our respective bedposts, darlin’.”

  Oh, this man. “Moving on.” From her clipboard she pulled a diagram of the tent’s interior layout and handed it over. “Follow me.”

  She strode through the main entrance of the tent as if it hadn’t been on the verge of collapsing only minutes earlier, her heels clicking on the wood flooring in time with her pounding pulse. Three steps in, her messenger bag snagged on something. She lurched forward, then snapped backward, staggering. A rolling cart loaded down with centerpiece arrangements of hurricane vases and bright, exotic flowers and greens careened past her, the florist scrambling after it. It banged into a rack of chairs, sending birds-of-paradise flying like javelins.

  Remedy scurried after them and up the fallen stems. “Sorry about that,” she said to the florist. “Maybe lock the brakes next time?”

  The florist muttered in Spanish, shaking her head as she took the birds-of-paradise from Remedy.

  Remedy pasted that cool smile on her lips again and glanced in Micah’s direction. That annoying almost smile was back on his face, accompanied by a twinkling in his eyes as he whipped out a measuring tape and walked to the florist’s cart.

  Was he actually going to measure the distance between the top of the candle and the top of the vase? Sure, she’d watched fire marshal deputies do that occasionally before weddings in Los Angeles, but they were always overeager newbies, not seasoned professionals like Micah, who probably did hundreds of fire inspections every year at the resort. He had to know already that the resort was in compliance. Weren’t they?

  Those centerpieces had been constructed weeks ago, and not under Remedy’s supervision. Swallowing hard, she hustled to his side. “Look, I know size matters, but isn’t this a little extreme?”

  The measuring tape retracted with a snap. “Size does matter, Ms. Lane. And I’m glad you’re savvy enough to recognize that. But if you think my adherence to the law is too extreme, then that’s only because you have no idea what foolish fire risks this resort has attempted to get away with in the past, the special events planners included.”

  He pulled the measuring tape out again and zeroed in on a second vase. She thrust a printout of the wedding’s floor plan in front of his face, impeding his progress. “As you can see, we’re in one hundred percent compliance with Texas state regulations on tent occupancy codes, number of exits, and exit clearance space.”

  He stepped left, away from the printout, and jammed the measuring tape into another vase. “That’s a nice story, but you’re over the occupancy code by sixteen people. And that’s not counting the servers, the band, and your crew. The two extra tables probably also mean some of the aisles are too narrow, which is also against code.”

  Impossible. She shook the paper. “You barely glanced at the layout.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You think this is my first rodeo?”

  No. No, she didn’t. But as she looked at the layout, doing some fast math about the square footage and the number of guests set to arrive, it was becoming embarrassingly obvious that it was hers. What had Alex and Carina been thinking, renting a tent that was too small for the wedding party? And why hadn’t Remedy thought to double-check that?

  “I’ll nix the extra tables.” That shouldn’t be a problem. The bride and groom hadn’t elected to assign seating, and there was no chance of every single guest showing up.

  “See that you do.” Micah retracted the measuring tape again. “You’re going to need shorter candles, too. These are off by two inches. If you use Maria Valleros as the florist in the future, you’ll have to watch her about that. She’s almost as notorious a code violator as Ty Briscoe himself.”

  Damn it. “Done. Fine.” There had to be thirty candles and vases in the storage room next to Remedy’s office that her assistants could swap out in time for the wedding.

  She turned away before he could catch a glimpse of the heat rising on her neck like a neon sign announcing her mortification. If there had ever been a man she’d wanted to not look like a fool in front of, it was Micah Garrity.

  “Funny, isn’t it, how raking in buckets of money makes people feel above the law?”

  Throughout her life Remedy had found that to be unequivocally true, but she refused to give Micah the satisfaction of her agreement. “What is it with you and money? It’s not like it killed your dog or stole your Bible or something.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  With the wedding only a few hours from starting and the addition of the code violations
she had to correct, she didn’t have the time or patience to stand around and dicker with him. With her professional mask back in place, she spun on her heel to face him again. “Are we done here? It looks like I’ve got a lot of work to do, so I’d like to get on with it.”

  He nodded at a far corner of the tent, to a cluster of brawny men clad in traditional Polynesian tribal attire standing near a side exit. “First, let’s talk about what they’re doing here.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. “They’re Polynesian dancers. This is a tropical island–themed wedding and they’re the entertainment. What’s the problem now?”

  “And how do you explain those torches they’re holding?”

  She caught her hands squirming and forced them to still against her clipboard. “Those aren’t torches. They’re batons.”

  This time, there was no “almost” about it. Micah’s eyes glowed with genuine amusement. He rolled those full lips over each other like he was formulating the perfect cutting remark to put her in her place. Then he turned to the dancers. “Hey, Tito, are you and your crew planning to set those batons on fire tonight?”

  “Hey, Chief. Good to see you, man. Yeah, you bet we are.”

  Damn it, damn it, damn it.

  “Inside or out?” Micah asked Tito, walking his way.

  “Out.”

  “They’ll be performing on a stage outside during the cocktail reception after the ceremony. Perfectly safe,” Remedy said.

  Micah turned to face her again. What she wouldn’t give to wipe that smug grin off his face. “Do you know what I’m going to ask next, Ms. Lane?”

  Forget wiping off that grin, she’d pay good money to get her hands around his neck. She hated that he made her squirm. She hated that he had all the power in their interaction. Hated that he was getting off on it, too. She dropped her voice an octave, her words coming out as a rumbling hiss. “You want to see the stage.”

  “Well, since you offered so sweetly.”

  She took off marching toward the exit on to the pavilion. Micah snagged her sleeve and ground their progress to a halt just inside the tent opening. “Hey, California, I know you think I’m asshole number one right now, but—”